


Sounds of Silence

by keelywolfe



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BotFA spoilers - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Grieving sex, M/M, post-BotFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3081725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In the end, Dwalin wakes alone, sprawled out on cold ice with the ache in his head blinding and the fresh metal taste of blood in his mouth. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sounds of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> I was not ready for BOTFA. It was only about 100x worse than I expected. And Bagginshield shipper than I am, I can't help but think of Dwalin who didn't just lose his King, he lost his closest friend. So there's this story, then, for Dwalin, for me, set directly post-botfa. Enjoy.

* * *

In the end, Dwalin wakes alone, sprawled out on cold ice with the ache in his head blinding and the fresh metal taste of blood in his mouth. Unsure even then if he was alive and it is only when he sees his brother, his own face bloody and stained that he believes he might still live.

Balin is there, as he always is, his grip strong and sure as he pulls Dwalin to his feet. It is only when they find Bilbo -- when they find Thorin -- that Balin is weak. He collapses to his knees, every year of his life pressing him down and Balin weeps the unlovely tears of the old. 

Dwalin only watches him, past any grief. He watches the others gather close, vaguely listens to their murmurs and weeping. Watches as Gandalf leads the little Halfling away and Bilbo seems past tears of his own, sitting with his face as filthy and bloody as any of them, slack with shock. 

He only stands away and watches, offering none of his own pain even as the others raise their voices in cries of grief, a song of sorrow as familiar to any Dwarf as a cradlesong. His sorrow sits thick around his heart, a solid as the ice beneath their feet and Dwalin cannot share it, not even with his own brother. 

It remains there, frozen and unyielding, even as he lends his shoulders to carrying Thorin down from the hill, past the wet and weeping faces of others for there is no shame to be found in tears, not for Dwarves. Their grief is to be shared amongst them, the burden shared by all and yet--

Dwalin carries his alone as someone leads him to a small tent, rough hands bandaging wounds that he cannot feel, and he sits alone, waiting for the sound he knows will come. He's heard it before, the deep moan of mournful horns that carry news of the dead to all. He's buried kings before, in his life, and princes as well, and it would seem that this day will see him doing both. 

Through the tent flap he can see the fall of light shading into that of the setting sun and that swollen, frozen knot of grief tightens in his chest as he waits for the sound of it, tension crawling achingly up his spine and for a wild moment, Dwalin does not think he can bear it. He cannot bear to the hear the horns of Thorin's death, cannot bear to think of him laying on bloodied snow, his eyes blank and open, lifeless, the spark within him that named him King to all and friend to Dwalin faded and gone. 

He cannot bear to hear it and the temptation rises to beat his fists against his own ears until they are bloody, deafening himself to the coming cry of the horns. 

He is already lifting a clenched fist when the flap of the tent is pushed aside and booted feet stride in. Slowly, Dwalin raises his eyes and it is not his brother who has come to him, not the wizard nor the little Hobbit. It's Bofur. Bofur, who always has a ready smile, is right there before him, his careworn face creased with concern. There is dirt on his face and blood, none of it streaked away by tears and the concern does not fade when Dwalin stands. 

It remains steady when Dwalin steps up to him, nothing more than worry and care wrinkling his brow and he doesn't protest when Dwalin kisses him, too hard. He doesn't fight or push him away or try to offer words that don't matter. Just steadies Dwalin with two hands on his face, one palm wrapped in an unraveling bandage.

They're all of them hurt in some way, sturdy as they are. Bruised and battered and still stinking of blood and Orcs. Water is precious, for drinking and for wounds, and those of them healthy enough will have to wait for a wash.

Dwalin can taste the bloody taint, the dirt, and does not care, not even when the taste blooms sharp; one of them has a split lip and Dwalin can't even tell whom. And Bofur, who doesn't have the sense to stay away from where he is not wanted, has yet to make a sound past ragged breathing.

The tents are barely more than oilcloth on sticks, barely enough to keep off the snow, and the camp outside is loud. Filled with the wounded and the dying and those still alive who are dealing with both. There's no one who would notice a sound or think anything of it if they did.

And yet. Silence is better, wordless. Dwalin doesn't have to think in silence. Silence is all Dwalin needs, craves, and Bofur doesn't fill the air with useless platitudes, ugly comforts that are none at all. 

He only clutches at Dwalin with his own bloodied hands, shaky fingers on his jaw, combing through the fringe of his hair, catching at his shoulders as Dwalin takes his mouth, biting as much as he is kissing, viciously demanding answers to questions he cannot ask. Why, why all this? Why this suffering, why go through all they had only to end this way.

Useless questions that have no answer, for Bofur is not their Maker, and he makes no attempt to fill the gaping ache growing in Dwalin. Instead, he is the vessel, taking whatever it is that Dwalin offers without protest, willingly accepting Dwalin's helpless anger.

And perhaps it is the lack of comforting that Dwalin does not want to accept that draws his anger away, settling it instead into something gentler, closer to desperation and he tears his mouth free, tipping Bofur's chin up to bite beneath his jaw.

There, silence broken by a thick gasp and if Dwalin cannot seize his own grief then he'll take whatever ease that is offered to him

The thick mat on the floor is hardly a step up from the ground. It suits Dwalin's mood, for the soft furs and silky bedclothes of Erebor are the illusion, the prize never quite grasped.

It's the mud and dirt caked to his boots with blood that is the reality, his axes resting carelessly nearby, one of them notched from a hard-headed Orc. It is Bofur beneath him, his legs already hooked behind Dwalin's knees, and his fingers scrabbling at Dwalin's back, fumbling beneath his tunic in search of skin.

Reality is the knees bracketing his hips, the plump lower lip he worries between his teeth, until Bofur huffs out a wordless moan, hands falling lax as Dwalin hunches his hips, rocking them together.

It's nothing but brutal friction; Dwalin is far past negotiating through belts and trousers. Easier to thread his hand into messy, unraveled braids, taking harsh kisses as he drives against Bofur. Booted heels dig into the backs of his thighs and he is reminded of nothing more than an eager driver spurring on a pony. His laughter strangles in his throat and he buries it further into Bofur's wincingly swollen mouth.

The silence is shattered now by creaking leather and low, rhythmic grunts from them both. One of Bofur's hands falls by his face, a dark stain bleeding through the bandage and Dwalin can't resist grasping his wrist, feeling the sturdy bones shift as Bofur tests his grip.

Bofur is not the strongest of their kind but he's no weakling, and Dwalin's arms strain, muscles bulging as for one moment Bofur fights his grip. Then he only looks up at Dwalin, that smile of his lurking beneath a searching gaze and he lets the other hand fall as a mirror to the first.

Dwalin catches both stout wrists in his grip and closes his eyes, only feels strong muscle and bone shifting beneath his fingers, the hammering of a pulse beneath thin skin, throbbing out a pattern, a beat, with one simple meaning.

Alive.

Alive. Alive. Alive, fluttering against Dwalin's thumb. Alive, his mouth hot and giving, alive, the stilted thrust of his hips up against Dwalin's. Bofur is alive and grunting, writhing, sweating beneath him, His thighs are strong, tight against Dwalin's sides, alive, alive, Bofur is alive, and Dwalin knows he would trade Bofur's life for another without question, damn his honor, damn the thick guilt in the back of his throat. Damn it all.

He can hear it coming before it does, a low, thin whine edging Bofur's every gasp and Dwalin can feel him stiffen, catch his broken cry as he comes and there's nothing else to mark it, heavy trousers hide all. It's enough, enough to drag him reluctantly to the edge and even this, this knife-edged pleasure is not one Dwalin deserves. That he takes it anyway speaks of something about his honor, Dwalin supposes. In the hot shine of pleasure, he does not care. Caring will come later.

For now, he only slumps down, letting Bofur take the full brunt of his weight. He does it without protest, slipping loose of Dwalin's slackening grip and his fingers are gentle on Dwalin's scalp, sliding through the cooling layer of sweat, tracing his tattoos with the familiarity of one who knows these marks.

Soon there will be horns. Their heavy, mournful sound will drag him from sleep and every Dwarf who is able to stand will be at their feet, their heads bowed. There will be horns and their meaning can be only one.

But soon is not now. Now, he only settles his head against Bofur's chest to wait and if Bofur notices his shirtfront is dampening, he's kind enough to keep his words to himself.

-finis-


End file.
